BUILDER OF THE FIRST ROAD ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS

His name is lost save in a brook of water
That darkly plunges down a forest glen,
Like that lean army pioneered to slaughter
Through lonely shades to horrible Duquesne;
But in the road he hewed across the mountains,
Where Braddock sleeps beneath his wagon wheels,
A living brook goes on from Eastern fountains,
No wars arrest, no killing frost congeals.

His was the skiff that hardily descended
The wild Potomac to the roaring falls,
His were the floats the soldiery befriended
To pass the torrent, under mountain walls
His were the bridges over the Opequan
And the Antietam in the morn of time,
Crossed by a multitude no man can reckon
To sceneries and destinies sublime.

Behind his axes formed the van of movement,
His picks and shovels were the conquering swords;
And in the rift of light he ope'd, Improvement
Went single file, through hidden savage hordes,
Until the pack mules with their bells were merry
Where rolling drums in vain inspired the fight,
And sheep and shepherds tarried by the ferry
That drowned a host amidst the battle's fright.

High-mettled Scot! thine is no glory hollow:
Shall we forget thee in our Westward Ho? —
When thy canoe the laden barges follow
And up thy path the steaming engines blow?
No! while the sky the Alleghany arches,
The good road builder's name shall be revealed:
Sir John St Clair's victorious army marches
Above the army lost on Braddock's field.